


To the Letter

by pinstripedJackalope



Series: TGGTVAV Challenge Fics [11]
Category: The Gentleman's Guide to Vice and Virtue Series - Mackenzi Lee
Genre: Adoption, Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bookbinding, Celebrity Percy Newton, Childhood Friends, Developing Relationship, Dyslexia, Dyslexic Monty, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, False Accusations, Flashbacks, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, Friends to Lovers, Heavy topics, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Letters, Love Letters, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Monty Adopted Adrian, Monty is a dumbass forgive him, Mutual Pining, Nightmares, Paparazzi, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Past Child Abuse, Past foster care, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Scipio Owns a Bookstore, Scipio Plays Matchmaker, Suicidal Ideation, Teen Sass, Trans Male Character, Trans Percy Newton, mentions of csa, monty pov
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:14:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25006753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinstripedJackalope/pseuds/pinstripedJackalope
Summary: Monty Montague is the thirty-two-year-old guardian of his teenage brother.  He works full time at a theater in the city, helps out at his mentor’s bookshop on the weekends, and he’d like to say that he’s open to love.  A relationship with Percy Nicks might prove to be a little too good to be true, however.
Relationships: Adrian Montague & Henry "Monty" Montague, Felicity Montague & Henry "Monty" Montague, Henry "Monty" Montague & Scipio, Henry "Monty" Montague/Percy Newton
Series: TGGTVAV Challenge Fics [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1638925
Comments: 44
Kudos: 31
Collections: TGGTVAV AU Challenge Fics





	1. 𝄞

**Author's Note:**

  * For [em_gray](https://archiveofourown.org/users/em_gray/gifts), [goldenthunderstorms](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenthunderstorms/gifts).
  * Inspired by [strangers in the night](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24035263) by [em_gray](https://archiveofourown.org/users/em_gray/pseuds/em_gray). 



> This is round ten of the TGGTVAV AU Fic Challenge, which is a very special bonus round! This fic features not one, not two, but [REDACTED] links to past works. Check out the end notes of every chapter to see which links were used!
> 
> The main link is wishes, from em_gray's fic strangers in the night. It won't come until chapter 13 but trust me, it's there!

Moodboard by me!

It’s a crisp, bright morning, of the sort filled with the distant sound of the ocean crashing against the cliffs and seagulls cawing as they fight over crabs. Off to the East, the lighthouse stands high and proud, watching over the ocean and the town alike. The sky is blue, and the water is beautiful, and though I have things to do I’m not in too much of a hurry to appreciate a few of the little things on my way down main street. The pizzaria with the white tables and blue umbrellas out front, the boating store with the equipment to cover all your boating needs, the flower shop/tattoo parlor run by a nice couple I’ve met a few times… ah, here we are. 

I come to a stop just under the _Eleftheria_ _’s_ sign, proudly proclaimed in a curly script that makes my head hurt. A quick tug at the door lets me know that it’s still locked. Bag hanging off my shoulder, I peer into the bookshop’s front window.

Nothing and no one. Looks like Scipio isn’t up and about yet. This time last year he would have already been open an hour. _Old man_ _’s getting lax_ , I think with a laugh. Then I shift the bag a little higher to fish my keys out of my pocket and let myself in.

The shop is as cool and familiar as ever. I take a deep, refreshing breath. Ah, the sweet smell of books… a pleased sigh releases any tension in my shoulders from the morning so far, not that there was much to begin with. I’m not a book person—not like my sister or our friend Dante are—but the smell of paper has become something of a comfort to me over the years. Books are calm, they’re generally helpful, and I’ve never once been hurt by a book. Well, except that time Scipio’s personal copy of _The Martian_ gave me a papercut, which I’ll never forgive it for. And all the headaches Shakespeare gave me in high school, those too, I guess.

And, coincidentally, the weight of them digging the strap of the bag I’m carrying into my shoulder. I grunt, hefting it up onto the counter. It’s full of books that my landlady wanted to get rid of—most of them are old gardening books, but there are a few novels and things mixed in. _Good Omens_ , _Unwind_ , a few Agatha Christie murder mysteries… oh! A Brothers Grimm fairy tale compilation, nice.

I flip through it idly with one hand while stacking the others on the counter, waiting for Scipio to arrive from his apartment upstairs. I can’t remember if the Brothers Grimm ever covered Beauty and the Beast, but if they did then I’m _definitely_ keeping this one. It’s my favorite fairy tale—something about the prince’s redemption just hits different as a former foster kid whose father used to tell him he was a worthless no-good bastard son.

…Speaking of Beauty and the Beast. I wonder if Adrian would watch the Disney version with me.

“You’re early,” says a voice, just as I’m getting to the good stuff. I look up to find Scipio, taking the stairs down one at a time. He’s been having some trouble with his hip lately—I drop the book to go give him a hand.

“I’m not early, you’re late,” I inform him, once he’s seated behind the counter. It’s fond teasing. The shop doesn’t actually have hours; it opens when Scipio comes down and closes when he goes up, and that’s just how it goes. There are only three regular employees, plus me, their only volunteer. It’s been like this since Scipio’s official retirement from social work, when he hit fifty-three and just couldn’t take the stress anymore. 

That’s kind of how I met him, actually. It was twenty years ago, and I was twelve, and the school had just found out I was being abused by my father. Scipio was forty-seven at the time and contemplating quitting when his boss assigned me to his caseload. In all honesty, sometimes I think he should have just quit when my case file was dropped on his desk. But he didn’t, and he got me and my sister out of there, and then he stuck around until I aged out of the system, and here we are. 

I owe him a lot. Hence why I volunteer. When I have time between rehearsals and production meetings, of course.

Ignoring my sass, Scipio plucks his specs from his pocket and sets them on his nose, starting to shuffle his way through the books on the counter. I leave him to it, going instead to check on the birds.

“Good morning, rise and shine!” I call, lifting the blinds in the bird room. I’m met with a chorus of chirps.

Most of the canaries are in the main cage, in the center of the room—there are three of them, all sweet-tempered and cute. They’re named after the three musketeers, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis. They like to sing songs for the people who browse all the bird-keeping books Scipio has shelved in here. 

Then, of course, in the little gold cage in the corner, is _Fax_. We call him that because of his preoccupation with Scipio’s ink pads. He’s smart, for a canary—if I didn’t know better I’d think he’s got parrot somewhere in his bloodline. He staged a prison break the last time Scipio was holding one of his bookbinding workshops and managed to roll around in the blue ink before we caught him again. Thankfully the ink was non-toxic, but he’s been blue for two weeks now and I’m beginning to doubt that it’ll ever come out.

I set out some fresh seed for everyone, saving Fax for last. He does _not_ appreciate that, and subjects me to a shrill shriek until I head over to him, laughing. 

It’s as I’m giving him a little head scritch that I hear the bell over the front door ring. “I’ll be back,” I promise, taking back my hand to another angry screech. Then I head back to the main room, waving Scipio back into his seat as I approach the tall man looking at the display rack near the door, a violin case slung across his back.

The first thing that strikes me is how… ahem… absolutely fantastic this guy’s _ass_ is.

The _second_ thing that strikes me is how _familiar_ he looks. Not his ass, but his _face_. Maybe it’s the color of his skin—a warm brown—or the style of his hair—wild and curly, short on the sides—but whatever it is, it hits me like a cement truck. I wrack my brain, trying to think of who he might be. A fan of the theater troupe I work for? A member of one of the bands I’ve been a roadie to? Someone whose house I delivered a pizza at back in the day, maybe?

I have six years of the group home that me and Felicity stayed at rolling across my minds eye when I realize that, whoops, he’s speaking to me and I should probably be listening. “Sorry, what?” I ask, packing away the mental memory reel and turning my good ear toward him. I’ll have to pull it back out later.

The man snaps his mouth shut. “O-oh. I, um. Never mind. I heard you guys hold bookbinding workshops, are you… having another one soon?”

I blink, then turn to the schedule that is written on the chalkboard behind the counter in enormous block letters. I squint at it a moment— _damn_ my dyslexia—before saying, “Ah, sorry. You’re out of luck. The next round isn’t until June.”

“Oh. That’s too bad. I was, um… I’ve been meaning to make a scrapbook of some things and I thought it would be nice to bind it myself, but…”

There’s a thud as something heavy hits the counter. I glance over at Scipio, raising an eyebrow. He coughs. “Sorry,” he says, but there’s a twinkle in his eye that I very much do not trust. I trust it even less as he clears his throat and says, “I wouldn’t be opposed to making a few extra dollars. I run the workshops free for kids and five dollars for adults, but if you’d like a private class it would cost a little more. We send most of our profits to the local kids’ shelter, so it’s really them you’d be paying.”

I nod along, not sure what he’s on about. He doesn’t do ‘private classes’—what the heck is he up to?

Unclear. He must be sensing something I haven’t. Maybe Mr. Violin here is a celebrity or something and Scipio is pulling a con to steal all his money. Whatever—I’m not about to throw a wrench in whatever devious plot the old man has going on. 

I stand aside as the two of them barter back and forth, watching as they come to a consensus and shake hands about it. The man—Percy Nicks, he says his name is—gives me a shy smile as he heads off. I give him a little wave, my brows drawn in a frown because I _swear_ I know him from somewhere but I just can’t put my _finger_ on it—

It isn’t until I get home for the night, the Grimm Brothers’ book of fairy tales tucked under my arm, that I realize who Percy reminds me of. I laugh a little when I put the pieces together—he looks like he could be the older brother of my childhood best friend, Rhiannon. 

God, it’s been so long since I’ve seen her… we lost contact after me and Felicity were removed from our parent’s house and were sent to the group home in the city. Twenty years, it’s been… wow. I wonder if I could find her on facebook.

First things first, though…

“Yo, loser,” I say, leaning into Adrian’s room. He grunts at me, nose about two inches from the screen of his switch. “You’d better have your homework finished or I’m going to steal Animal Crossing and rip out all your flowers. Also I’m making pasta for dinner and you’re going to like it or else.”

“Homework’s done. Also if you don’t want me to complain then don’t burn it,” Adrian says.

Fourteen-year-old _brat_. “One time! One single time! Will you _never_ let it go?” I demand.

“Nope,” he says, popping the P.

Whatever. I don’t have to listen to this. I give him an affectionate flick on the forehead before retreating to the kitchen to get started on our food. Which, in case anyone is wondering, comes out perfectly fine, thank you very much. 

I scoff to myself. The kid doesn’t realize how good he has it—he doesn’t get _smacked_ when he complains about dinner. He was born to our parents just after I first turned eighteen, in what I assume was a final attempt on the part of my father to create the perfect little servant. The court system, in a surprisingly swift decision, slammed its gavel down and said ‘no babies for you’, which left one Montague infant with nowhere to go. It took a lot of hard work getting sober, a dedicated speech from Scipio to the judge, and a few parenting classes before I was allowed to become the whelp’s official guardian. I managed it, though, and he’s been with me ever since.

I sigh, setting down the plates at the table. I worry, sometimes, that I’m no good for the kid. I’m not my parents, but the apple can only fall so far from the tree. The fact that I don’t hit him doesn’t mean I’m a good parent. What if I’m giving him too much leeway? What if I’m not providing enough support? What if I can’t even tell the difference between being his friend and leaning on him until he’s supporting me instead? It’s been fourteen years and the social workers who came to sniff around never took him away from me, but _what if_?

“You’re gonna hurt yourself thinking that hard.”

I turn, pouting. Adrian is a good four inches taller than I am, and it’s becoming increasingly obvious that he’s not going to stop growing any time soon. Where on earth he got tall genes from I have no clue, because us Montagues aren’t exactly known for our height. Felicity likes to say we’re built like corgi dogs, and, well, I can’t exactly argue.

“I’ll hurt myself doing whatever I so please, mind your business,” I say, gesturing for him to sit. I join him a moment later, pouring out some apple juice for the both of us. We have a quick argument about who gets the extra meatball—I always try to make things in evens so that it’s all fair and square, but I’m notoriously bad at visualizing things—and then dig in. 

“…What were you thinking about, anyway?” Adrian asks after a few minutes. I’m not paying attention—I have my phone out and Adrian has his switch on the table—so it takes me a moment to realize that he’s said anything.

I raise my eyes when he clears his throat. “Oh. Uhhh, just the usual. Wondering if I’m doing right by you, that kind of thing.”

I can practically see the smart response growing on his lips. I raise my eyebrow in a warning, but alas, it does no good. With a cheeky grin, he says, “You’d do right by me if you stopped burning perfectly good food.”

Yep. There it is. Called it. 

“Hey,” I say. “No need to be a jackass.”

He shrugs, turning back to his switch. "You worry too much. It’s gonna give you wrinkles. Like Scipio.”

Teenagers, I _swear_. I’m only thirty-two and yet he acts like I’m sixty. Wrinkles… honestly.

…This doesn’t stop me from surreptitiously glancing at my reflection in a spoon when he’s not looking, pulling a little at the skin around my eyes.

After dinner, I snag Adrian’s collar before he can slip out of the kitchen and point him toward the dishes in the sink. When I cook he cleans, them’s the rules. While he groans about it, I head out into the livingroom to pull out my shitty old laptop.

Facebook, I find, has an awful lot of Rhiannons. I look at all the ones around here—only two, it’s a pretty small town—before I make a sincere attempt to remember her last name. Twenty years, three of which were spent almost entirely drunk, is not the sort of time that is kind to the memory. 

I sigh. Of course I don’t remember her last name. I haven’t seen her since I was _twelve_. I was barely a _person_ back then. My entire personality revolved around getting a lot of girls and a few lads to kiss me. I spent half my time looking up how to flirt and the other half looking up how to cover bruises.

Besides, what would I say if I _did_ find her? Like, hello, Rhee, my dad used to beat me so the state moved me out of town. I’m now a recovering alcoholic taking care of my teenage brother. Sorry that I never got in contact. My bad?

…I groan. Maybe it’s best if I… don’t say anything at all. Not that I can _find_ her. She’s probably in Hollywood now, getting famous. She was in orchestra back then, so… god, or was it marching band? Why can’t I _remember_? What is _wrong_ with me?

No. No, I’m not doing this. Not right now. I spent a lot of my teenage years pushing my limits and drinking to cope, and if I’ve learned anything at all it’s that I need to be kind to myself. Scipio was the first person to tell me that—I owe it to him to not undo all the hard work he’s put in over the years by getting frustrated and turning to bad coping mechanisms.

I push Rhiannon from my mind and go to make myself a cup of hot chocolate. Que sera sera, as they say. If I’m meant to meet up again someday with my childhood best friend then it’ll happen. If not…

I sip my drink, considering. If not, then perhaps this new Percy will be a nice distraction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References:  
> 1) Good Omens (fall from grace)  
> 2) The Martian (soul song)  
> 3) Unwind (unwritten)  
> 4) Beauty and the beast (rose petals)  
> 5) A murder mystery book (murder at mirror manor)  
> 6) The lighthouse on the edge of town (radio ship)  
> 7) Someone is adopted and talks about their social worker/also monty adopts adrian (what he needs)  
> 8) A little blue bird in a golden cage (marks)  
> 9) Flowershop/tattoo parlor (the number twenty)  
> 10) Roadie mention (one day I’ll sing to you my dear)  
> 11) Trans percy (hopeless)


	2. 4/4

The day of the private class dawns gray and gloomy, the kind of gray gloom that has a fifty-fifty chance of becoming a bona fide tempest by noontime. I bite my lip on my way down Main Street, looking out at the few ships that are still on the water. I’ve lived in our little ocean town long enough and been caught out in the rain often enough to have learned to predict it. It always happens just when I’ve decided to go out for lunch instead of sitting in and eating leftovers, and it drives me nuts.

“Hey, Scip,” I say, ducking into the bookshop past the vines on the front that are shivering in the wind. I’ve got a pack of decorative papers under one arm, though I’m not sure we’ll get around to using them. I’m half expecting dear Percy to bail on his lesson with the weather the way it is, honestly. Wouldn’t that be just my luck. First hot guy I’ve had time to see in ages and he flakes out.

Scipio, in the middle of supervising Georgie as he sets up the card table that we do workshops on, grunts at me. “You got the acid-free ones?” he asks, as I set the paper on the counter.

I roll my eyes. “You’ve only been doing this for five years, Scip. Of course I got the acid-free ones.”

He raises his hands. “Just wanted to check. I know you have a hard time with labels.”

I frown. That is true. I swear to god it said acid-free at the store, though now I’m beginning to doubt myself. I groan, pulling the paper toward me to double check.

It’s as I’m wrinkling my nose at the fine print that the door opens behind me, the wind blowing in and giving the bell a good rattle before whoever just came in forces it closed again. “Hi,” says a breathless voice. “Sorry I’m early, I wanted to get here before the rain hit.”

Well, color me pleasantly surprised. I lean against the counter, turning my head to give Percy a flash of dimple. He smiles back, a cute, nervous smile. Nice. And even nicer is the fact that now that I’ve figured out who he reminds me of I’m free to really take him in, head to toe, from the blue button down shirt to the black jeans that could be tailored for how well they fit to the kind of fancy shoes that would look dapper in any situation from a casual date to a job interview. It’s an ensemble that makes me feel a little hot under the collar, honestly. And maybe I’m really off the mark, but by the way his eyes look me over as I do the same to him? Makes me think he’s no stranger to other men’s gazes.

Scipio, that twinkle in his eye again, shakes his head. “You’re just on time to get a tour of the shop. Monty, would you…?”

“Yessir,” I say, straightening up. Don’t mind if I do, actually. A little bit of alone time with a cute guy never goes amiss. I beckon Percy to follow me around the side of the counter.

The building isn’t that large, but it does have a few nooks and crannies that people wouldn’t notice on their own. The closet where we hang coats, for instance, is under the stairs, hidden behind a painted screen—I take Percy’s jacket and hang it up for him. Then there’s the supply cupboards, which he’ll have free access to for as long as the workshop goes—the ‘craft nook’ where Scipio keeps all the arts and crafts books—and, of course, the bird room, which is essential for every patron to visit at least once.

“Is that canary _supposed_ to be blue?” Percy asks, when I open the door with a flourish. I laugh, leading him inside, and tell him the story of our little escape artist as Fax screeches.

“He’s wily and knows how to unhook the door to the big cage, so don’t let him out unsupervised,” I warn once we’ve visited the little nuisance. 

“So if I’m supervised I’m allowed to let them out?” Percy asks, reaching careful fingers up to the wires of the big cage. Athos and Aramis keep to the back, but Porthos comes forward to investigate, chirping excitedly.

I nod, watching Percy as he watches the birds. He doesn’t have his violin today, I note—a pity. He could have played something for us. I wonder off-hand if the birds would enjoy some music. Fax would object, I’m sure, but the muskateers might sing along.

“Here, let me see if they’ll come out,” I say, after a moment watching Percy click at the bird like one might click at a cat. I undo the closure on the cage door and reach in to let Porthos up on my finger. I’ve just gotten her out when we get a call from the other room saying they’re ready. 

“Aw,” I pout. Porthos cocks her head, chirping.

Percy swipes a careful finger down the bird’s tail, a smile curling across his lips. He’s looking less nervous now, a fact which I pat myself on the back for. “It’s fine. Just means I’ll have to come back to visit,” he says. 

“That you certainly do,” I say, guiding Porthos back to her perch. Then I sweep Percy out to the main room for the big event. 

We arrive to find that Scipio has pulled out all the stops. The card table has been summarily covered in bookmaking and book decorating supplies, more than usual and also more than they could possibly use in one sitting. Of course, he won’t have to start with the little rubber band books that he does for the younger kids so they’ll have something to play with while the older ones and the adults try their hand at sewing, but still. Seems a bit much to me.

“Well, looks like you’ve got a fun day planned,” I say, starting to swerve around the table. 

I’m stopped by Scipio, who takes me gently but firmly by the elbow and guides me down into a chair. 

Welp. There goes my plan to watch from a safe distance, occasionally offering some words of encouragement and/or winking seductively. I look helplessly around at all the piles of things surrounding us, horror dawning in me as I realize that Scipio actually expects me to _participate_. Yikes. Doesn’t he know better than to let me near the sewing supplies? I am absolutely _awful_ with paper crafts. And sewing needles. And glue. Like, I-try-to-fold-a-piece-of-construction-paper-in-half-and-it-winds-up-looking-like-some-sort-of-alien-spacecraft awful. Last time I participated I accidentally sewed the sleeve of my sweater into the spine of a book without realizing.

Percy, seated beside me on my left, is looking just-as-if-not-more nervous than I am. “I know why I’m scared, but why are you scared?” I ask, leaning in close to whisper. Judging by Scipio’s _look_ I’m not whispering quietly enough. Damn ear—it’s hard to judge sound when you’re half deaf.

“I didn’t really… think this through,” Percy admits, studying the sharp point of an awl. He lets out a nervous laugh. “I’m not an art person, I really don’t know what I was thinking.”

“Oh, thank _god_ ,” I say, letting out a breath. When he looks up at me, frowning in confusion, I give him a cheeky grin. “Maybe you’ll be worse than I am and I’ll look good in comparison.”

He stares at me just long enough that I think he’s written me off as crazy. Then, as I watch, his mouth twitches into a dazzling smile that makes my heart thud in my chest. “…You’re on,” he says.

 _God, am I ever_ , I think stupidly. Then I shake myself as Scipio takes his seat across from us and gets our attention.

We’re starting with saddle stitch, my least favorite. Scipio says that once we master that one we’ll move on to Japanese stab binding, my other least favorite. If we get through those both then we’ll finish up with coptic stitch, which is, you guessed it, the one that I absolutely _loathe_. I can already tell that it’s going to be a tough day—I tend to get frustrated with this stuff faster than I’d like. I’m half hoping that someone will open the door and let the wind sweep everything off the table, but to my utter annoyance it’s a slow day due to the weather.

Fine. I’ll just suffer, I guess. At least my binding attempts will provide a good source of humor. Once I’m finished hating myself, anyway. Ugh. 

Time to rip the band-aid off. _Here goes nothing_ , I think, pulling some paper toward me.

Percy, to my utter disappointment, is actually quite good at all the bits of bookmaking that trip me up. The counting, the measuring, the cutting, the folding, the stitching… did I just list everything? He’s meticulous about it, working steadily, his hands sure. On the flip side that means he’s slow, so while I’m already halfway through messing up the next step he’s still patiently chugging along, making everything as perfect as he can. 

“Wait, hold up,” he says after a while, gesturing to my hands.

I stop with my needle halfway through one of the holes I poked with my awl, looking at the tangled mess of my waxed thread. He’s stopped what he’s doing, as well, his eyes on me. “Can I?” he asks carefully, reaching out.

I nudge my half-assembled book over. He takes it carefully, fingers brushing mine. I watch as he gently begins to pick apart the knots

“Look. See here? Your thread’s too long. If you shorten your thread a bit it’s easier to handle,” he says, folding the thread over to show me where it goes and why I cut too much.

I blink. “Oh. Ooohhh. Yeah, wow, somebody should have stopped me before I cut that.” I laugh at my past self, glancing up to Scipio, who shrugs.

“Better to have too much than too little,” is the only wisdom he has to offer me.

“Sure,” I say. I’m not sure I believe that, but you know what? Scipio has lived a lot longer than I have, so if he says that’s how it goes I guess I’ll go along with it.

I’m not, however, going along with the next set of instructions. Less because I’m being contrary and more because I really just have no clue where to put my needle.

“I don’t get it,” I say, frowning.

“Here,” Percy says again, putting down his own project to help me. “It makes a figure eight. See?”

My mouth drops open. “Okay, what the heck. You’re a liar.”

“What? It’s right there, look—”

“Not the figure eight, I see it,” I huff, turning to glare at him. “I mean about the fact that you’ve never done this before. You were _so_ lying.”

He stares at me, and I’m started to get afraid that I’ve actually hurt his feelings when he barks out a surprised laugh. “I haven’t!” he says, rocking back in his chair. 

“You have! Admit it!”

“I can’t admit something that isn’t true,” he snarks, grinning.

I whine, sliding down in my seat until my head is level with the table. “Then how are you so _good_ at this?”

Percy starts to say some crap about violins and hand-eye coordination when I catch Scipio watching us from across the table. He’s got a smile peaking through his gray-streaked beard, small but fond, entirely at odds with the fact that I’ve derailed his entire lesson. He quirks an eyebrow when he meets my eye.

“Are you two ready to keep going?” he asks.

Percy pauses, glancing at his watch. “Ah. It’s almost the end of our class, and I have a schedule to keep.”

I pout, then hurriedly straighten my face as he looks down at me. “Is it… would it be possible to have another of these classes?” he asks, glancing from me to Scipio, an entirely too cute expression on his face. It’s somewhere between hesitant and eager, and I am suddenly filled with the urge to learn how to sculpt so that I may capture it perfectly in clay.

I shake myself out of it as Scipio goes to the counter to take a look at his calendar. “If you have time next week we can finish up saddle stitch and try some of the others,” he says thoughtfully.

Percy nods, lighting up. “Yeah! And I could see the birds again, too. I’d like that.”

He’s looking at me when he says that last bit, and, listen. I’m not the sort of person who flusters easily, but there’s something about the earnest expression on his face that makes me flush like a schoolgirl with a crush. I nod a little, feeling hazy. “I’d like that, too,” I manage to say. 

Percy grins. “Then it’s a date,” he says.

A date. God. Does this man know what he’s doing to me? I can’t tell as he goes to start stacking some of the papers spread out across the table.

It doesn’t take long to pack everything away. Percy, pure gentleman that he is, helps me fold up and stow away the card table before he goes. He’s still grinning as he gives me a little wave, heading for the door.

“Hold up,” Scipio says, reeling him back in. 

Percy stares as Scipio drops a stack of comics in his arms. “Uh—” he starts.

Scipio cuts him off with a shrewd look, now reaching for a second pile to dump on me. “I wanted to get more stuff for the kid’s section, so I bought all these comics,” he intones, very serious. “They’ll look good in the window display, but I want to put some blurbs up, as well. I need you to tell me about them.”

I flip idly through my pile. _The Walking Dead_ , some superhero/vigilante comics, _Lumberjanes_ … it’s an interesting mix. I’m a slow reader, and I don’t have a lot of time after rehearsals, but I’m willing to give it a go. Maybe I’ll try to read some on my daily commute. The train gets pretty boring.

Percy, meanwhile, is frowning as if something isn’t quite clicking. “Wait, so… you want us to read them and tell you about them?” he asks.

Scipio nods. “You’re coming back anyway, might as well help out a little.”

“Why not just read them yourself?”

I roll my eyes. “Despite owning a bookshop, Scipio doesn’t read.”

“I did more than my fair share of reading when I was a social worker,” the old man says, unrepentant. “You would not believe how many pages of files I’ve read.”

Percy snaps his mouth closed, looking faintly embarrassed for asking. I, on the other hand, respond the way I always respond, which is with an emphatic, “Files and fiction are _not_ the same thing.”

Scipio waves me away like he always does. “You have things to do. Go on, so that you can come back and tell me about those comics,” he says to Percy, dismissing him. Percy glances at me, as if asking if he’s serious—unfortunately for him, Scipio is _very_ serious. I nod, heading around the counter to fetch him a plastic bag for the comics. It’s started raining, just like I predicted—not too hard, but it’ll pick up. I help Percy stow the comics away and then fetch his coat for him, too, after which he says a quick goodbye and then ducks out into the elements.

The shop door swings closed behind him, the bell ringing. I let out a silent breath, relaxing against the counter to watch him head off down the street. _Until next time_ , I think.

“…That went well,” Scipio says, as if to no one in particular. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References:  
> 12) Stormy skies (radio ship)  
> 13) Ships (radio ship, marks)  
> 14) Sculpting/clay (written in stone)  
> 15) Superhero/vigilante comics (chance encounters)  
> 16) The walking dead (dead head walking)  
> 17) Vines (marks)


	3. G/

“…You’ve been humming a lot.”

I pause mid-song, twirling around to face Adrian, who is standing in the doorway of my room watching me. “Hm?” I say, feigning innocence.

He wrinkles his nose. “Are you happy or something?” he asks.

“Perhaps. What, am I not allowed to feel good?” I ask back.

“No, you’re allowed. It’s just weird, is all. Like you’re dressed up as a court jester.”

Wow, rude. I pout. “Would you rather I had the morbs?” I ask. 

From the look on his face you’d think I just spoke Japanese. “The _what_?”

“Morbs,” I say, making some a grand sweeping gesture as I try to translate Victorian slang into teen-speak. “You know, them morbid feels.”

I am obviously not doing a very good job, because Adrian blinks at me and says, “You are a sad, strange little man, you know that?”

Which, again, _rude_. “Not all of us are _giants_ ,” I say with a haughty sniff.

“…Height is a choice, Monty, everyone knows that.”

God, the sass never ends! “You know, sometimes I miss the little toddler who used to bring me dandelions from the park and didn’t sass me all the time,” I say. “Bring him back for an encore sometime, would you?”

He stares at me for a moment. Then he says, “No,” in the most deadpan voice I’ve ever heard and walks back out the door.

Which, fair. If I didn’t want the kid to sass I should have never taught him the craft at such a tender age. Curse my past self and my desire to bring the kid under my wing, to teach him the ways of the world. Sass is a weapon that should be wielded with care—and yet here he is, turning the blade back around on the master who taught him everything he knows.

I sigh. “Don’t miss the bus!” I call down the hall, waiting for the responding grunt to know that he heard me. Then I sit on my bed and consider his question. 

It’s not actually that I’ve been unhappy. I think the more apt term would be _lacking hope_. Not quite hope _less_ , per se, just… lacking. I haven’t had a partner of any sort, man or woman, since Adrian was eight or so. It was just… too difficult. It was irresponsible to have one night stands when I had the kid around, but I was having trouble holding down a stable relationship, and it didn’t seem like it was worth the effort so I just… stopped trying. It was better to focus on raising the kid, I figured. 

Percy, though… Percy makes me feel hopeful. I feel like I’m ready, like I have an actual shot. Hanging out with him at the _Eleftheria_ was so easy, it was like we’ve done it a million times before. Maybe this is it—maybe after all this time I’m finally ready to settle down.

It’s strangely thrilling. _Don_ _’t go too far too fast_ , I warn myself, but heck, who am I kidding? I don’t know the meaning of moderation. It’s one of my biggest flaws, along with being too pretty and outwardly self-assured for most people to handle.

Not Percy, though. He doesn’t look at me with that strange mix of awe and annoyance that I tend to get from strangers. Like I’m a spoiled prince that they would like nothing more than to tear down. He just looks at me like I’m… me.

“Bye, Monty! Don’t let the morbs get you!” Adrian calls, and I hear the door open. A glance out the window tells me the bus is waiting at the front of the building—kid’s cutting it close. I call a goodbye just before the door slams shut again. Then I shake my head, a smile on my face, before going to fetch my coat and a comic book and head to the train.

Reading on the train is nice, I find. I kind of wish I had someone to talk to so I could process the plot better. I like to say that I put the ‘sexy’ in ‘dyslexia’ but honestly it kicks my ass sometimes. The pictures help, at least.

I’m so engrossed in the comic that I miss my stop and have to get the next one, and I’m just on time as I get to the theater. I jog in, already grinning. “Who’s ready for some blocking?” I call cheerfully.

A chorus of groans rises in response. “Monty, literally how the hell are you so perky?” someone asks, muffled, from the orchestra pit.

I shrug, leaning over the cart of stage props and miscellaneous costume stuff that’s pushed up against the stairs. In it I find a pair of red demon horns on a headband—I pluck them free, putting them on. The headband pushes my light brown hair back from my forehead and I’m sure I look ridiculous, but the important thing is that I’m feeling good. I’m ready to get this day _started_ , because the sooner I do the sooner it’ll be over and the sooner I get to see Percy again.

I cannot _wait_ to see Percy again.

Thankfully the day goes well, and the next is upon me in no time at all. The week flies by one rehearsal at a time, and I do not, in fact, let the morbs get me. I am not quite on top of the world, because I assume that people who are on top of the world don’t have to pay bills and/or cook dinner, but I’m close enough that I feel like I’m floating by the time I get to the _Eleftheria_ on Saturday.

“I’m home!” I call, sweeping in all at once. A patron turns to stare at me and I flash my dimples back.

“Put up the card table!” Scipio calls back from somewhere in the storeroom. “It’s in the front!”

I look around for a moment before I spot it, leaning against the stairs. It takes a few minutes of concentrated effort, but soon enough all the legs are properly out and I can start pulling out our supplies. I am, dare I say, excited to get back to bookbinding. I smother a smile into my sleeve.

By the time the session is set to start I’ve begun pacing at the front of the shop. Percy isn’t late yet, but I thought he might have come early again this week to see the birds, so it’s a little stressful when the clock strikes eleven and he hasn’t shown yet.

“Deep breath,” Scipio says to me on my third pass around the room. I roll my eyes, but suck in some air all the same. I feel weird and jittery, like I’m about to rattle out of my skin. Going to stand in the doorway helps, at least, though it’s mostly because once I do I see him a block or so down.

I wave excitedly, grinning as he waves back. He’s looking as fine as he did last I saw him, this time dressed in some tight-fitting tan khakis and a green button-down. God, I can’t wait to see that smile up close—

It’s then that I see the van turn off a side street, creeping up Main Street just after Percy. It pulls up to park on the curb just outside the boating shop as he arrives in the doorway. 

“Percy, don’t freak out but I think you’re being followed,” I whisper, plastering a face smile across my face. 

I’m being quiet because I don’t want to make it obvious to the van that we’ve noticed them, but Percy doesn’t seem to have that hangup. He turns to face the van head-on, pulls a face, and just—raises a middle finger at it?

My jaw drops open. I snag him by the elbow, dragging him inside. “What the hell was that?!” I demand.

Percy sighs. “Just some paparazzi. Ignore them, they’ll go away eventually.”

Paparazzi? Who the hell is Percy that he’s got paparazzi following him around? What on god’s green earth—?

Percy, as if sensing my imminent shut-down, sits down at the table and pats the chair next to him. “It’s not a big deal,” he says, watching me carefully in a way that suggests he’s about to drop a bombshell, “but I’m… well, I wouldn’t say famous, but—”

Oh, he’s totally famous. And he’s _modest_ about it. That’s _adorable_. I lean back in my chair, taking him in as he tries to convince me that having a few songs on the radio doesn’t make him an actual celebrity. I’m seeing him in a new light, and things are suddenly making a lot more sense—Scipio’s motivation behind offering private classes and letting us screw around whenever we want and luring Percy into helping out with bookstore stuff all becomes clear. He must have recognized Percy when he walked in—not only that, but he must be a Percy _fan_. 

…I suddenly have a new idea for Scipio’s next Christmas present.

Our bookbinding session today starts soon after that. It goes… well. Sort of. We finish up saddle stitch and spend some time decorating our little saddle stitch books with some of Scipio’s stamps and stickers. Then we start on the Japanese stab binding, which is just a tad trickier, and some forty-five minutes later I’m on the verge of throwing my entire project in the trash when Percy leans over, taking my wrist.

“Let go,” he says, gentle but firm, tapping my knuckles with a ruler.

I deflate, letting go of the little packet of papers that I’ve ruined. “This is _hard_ ,” I whine, dragging my hands down my face. I’m on edge—I just want things to go well with Percy. I don’t want to spend our time together getting frustrated and feeling like I’m fourteen and struggling in school all over again. There’s a reason I didn’t go to college, thank you very much.

I can practically hear Percy and Scipio sharing a look. “Are you okay?” Percy asks.

“I’m screwing everything up,” I say through my fingers.

“You’re not! Look, you were really close that time, you almost had it—”

I groan, planting my face on the table.

“…Is it the van?” Percy asks slowly. “I know it’s kind of awkward with them out there watching.”

“Maybe,” I say, begrudgingly. Percy is their real target and he’s so calm about it, it feels ridiculous that it could be affecting me so much. Before I can articulate this, however, Percy is up and heading for the door.

“What are you—” I ask, raising my head in surprise. I then shut up as he goes up to the van and knocks on a window.

“Hey,” he says, voice drifting back through the front door of the shop. “Could I ask you guys to leave? You’re making my friends very uncomfortable.”

Oh my god. Friends? I’m his friend? A friend for whom he would go up to the paparazzi and tell them to scram? Oh my god?

I’m still processing this as the van pulls away from the curb, making an awkward u-turn and heading for the highway. Percy waves it off and then comes back inside, looking calm and collected, as if he didn’t just play the part of my knight in shining armor. “They were nice,” he says, taking his seat again. “Where were we?”

I wordlessly gesture at the mess of my book. 

“Right. Here,” he says, and starts to press out the wrinkles for me, straightening out all the pages that I’d crumpled up in my little fit of rage. I’m close enough to see the freckles on his cheekbones, the little frown lines around his mouth as he bends his head over it and concentrates. His hands are steady, sure, and I’m suddenly struck by the fact that he just—he does all these small things for me like he doesn’t even think about it, like they’re second nature to him. He helps me when I’m frustrated and looks after me when I’m upset and I’ve only known him for a few weeks yet I feel as if I’ve known him for a lifetime.

I feel, as crazy as it sounds, like I’m _home_.

“There,” Percy says, after a long moment where I studiously blink back tears. He holds my little book up for Scipio to examine. “It’s not so bad, huh? It’s got some character now.”

“Indeed it does,” Scipio says, nodding sagely. 

Percy turns his grin on me and I huff a laugh, reaching out to take my book back. “Thank you,” I say, and I’m not sure what I’m saying it for. Making the paparazzi go away? Fixing my book? Being my _friend_?

God, whatever it is I hope it never stops.

The binding starts coming easier after that. We keep going and it’s like a light bulb goes off in my head as Percy shows me ways to visualize what I’m doing. I laugh when I tie off the thread of my little book, excited to have it finished. Percy is grinning with me, his hand on my arm as he leans to look over my shoulder. It’s so familiar—like we’ve done it a hundred times before. I can feel the happy flush creeping up my cheeks.

We decide against decorating these ones today. We still have the coptic hellstitch to do, which I’m guessing will take another two sessions—at _least_ —at the pace we’re going, but Scipio is amenable to more private classes and I’m more than down for more Percy time so we stop a little early to go hang out with the birds for a bit.

“Hello everyone!” I say, heading into the bird room. The three muskateers chirp happily, Porthos flitting around from perch to perch. Fax, who seems to be hiding in a cardboard tube, grumbles a bit but otherwise doesn’t put up a fuss at our intrusion, the best outcome we could hope for.

“Okay, here we go,” I say, closing the door behind us. I station Percy at the side of the big cage before I unlatch the front and reach inside for Porthos. Once she’s on my finger I guide her out. She chirps louder as I bring her up to Percy’s hand, and shuffles a bit on my finger, until finally… after a long moment where we both hold our breath… she hops ship, landing square on Percy’s thumb.

“…Oh,” Percy says, his mouth falling open. “She’s so light.”

That she is. And she’s behaving very well, so I show him how to give her a little treat from the bag on the table. We spend a while with her and the other muskateers, letting them flutter around the room, before we coax them back into their cage. Then, only when everyone else has been packed away, do we let out Fax.

He immediately dives for the door, screeching as he goes. He’s a song canary—I can never remember what particular kind even though Scipio has told me at least a dozen times—but he’s the least pleasant songbird I think I’ve ever heard. The noise startles a yelp out of Percy, which startles a snort out of me, which soon has us both doubled over with laughter.

It’s good, all the way up until we have to get Fax back in the cage, which is always a production. Usually I wait until he’s tired himself out some, but Percy needs to go so I distract him with a treat and pick him up while he’s occupied. He’s indignant the entire way, but that’s what he gets for weighing half an ounce.

Scipio stops Percy once again on his way out the door to hand him more books, a series of star wars comics this time. I expect him to accept them and get on his way but to my surprise he pauses, considering something. Then he holds out his hand, and in it is a piece of paper.

“So we can talk to each other about the books. It’s my personal number, so I guess like… don’t give it out if people ask,” he says.

“I won’t, I won’t,” I promise. I will, in fact, treasure these ten digits for as long as I live. I then watch after him as he makes his way down the street, making sure there are no more mysterious vans following along, all the way until he turns a corner and disappears from sight.

I breathe out, leaning in the open doorway until Scipio calls me in to move a stack of boxes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References:  
> 18) Spoiled prince (star crossed)  
> 19) The media (icarus, one day I’ll sing to you my dear)  
> 20) Character as celebrity (one day I’ll sing to you my dear)  
> 21) Star wars/epic sci-fi (star crossed)  
> 22) Demon horns (fall from grace)


	4. /C

I don’t think until after it’s already been delivered that maybe sending a ‘ _hello, darling_ ’ as my first text to Percy might, in fact, make me come off a little strong.

I sigh, accepting the fact that I’ve already done it and resigning myself to the wait to see his response, trying to convince myself all the while that I didn’t fuck up too badly. Really, darling isn’t so bad, is it? It could be friendly. I picked it up in high school, when I was enamored with a certain lovely fellow named Sinjon, but that doesn’t mean anything. Aaand neither did our little fling, actually. At the time I thought his blue eyes were the prettiest things I’d ever seen—but, as it turns out, while I was busy gazing at them they were staring right past me. 

Such is life.

I’m reminiscing about dear old Sinjon—it’s been a long time since I’ve thought about him, would it be weird to look him up on facebook?—when my phone pings with an incoming message. 

🎻🎶🌺🌺🌺: _I assume this is Monty_.

Me: _Yes. What gave it away_?

🎻🎶🌺🌺🌺: _It just seemed like a very Monty thing to say_.

Me: _Guilty as charged. I have a reputation to uphold, after all_.

🎻🎶🌺🌺🌺: _A reputation?_

Me: _Oh, you know. I_ _’m here, no fear, just flamboyantly queer_.

I cringe. I should not have sent that. Not that I’m _not_ flamboyantly queer—it’s just that I’m at a point in my life where I have to be a little more discerning about who I come out to. As someone who was forced back into the closet twice in their life—once when I said I liked boys at the age of twelve and my dad beat the hearing out of my right ear, and once when I stood before a homophobic judge asking for guardianship of my little brother and had to say that my flings with the same sex were just teenage angst so that they would take my case seriously—I have learned that there’s a time and a place for flamboyancy. Right here and now? It’s hard to say, but I’m betting that some random man who wandered off the street and into Scipio’s shop one day won’t be overly thrilled at an overt display of bisexuality.

I’m surprised when his next text comes a moment later, and judging by the simple ‘ _hell yeah!_ ’ I get in response he’s taken it in stride.

It’s a pleasant surprise, and I must take a little too long to answer because he texts me again.

🎻🎶🌺🌺🌺: _Unless that was a joke. In which case like_ _… you do you, but that’s in pretty bad taste_.

Me: _No! God, no. No joking here. I am 100% bisexual. I_ _’m not that kind of asshole_.

🎻🎶🌺🌺🌺: _Ah. Sorry. It_ _’s hard to tell tone over text sometimes. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable_.

Me: _No worries, darling._

🎻🎶🌺🌺🌺: _What are you doing now_?

Me: _Just on my lunch break. We_ _’ve been blocking for days now and it’s miserable_.

🎻🎶🌺🌺🌺: _I see. Would you mind if I called, in that case?_

I text back a quick ‘ _go for it_ ’ before I register that a call means that he’s going to expect me to answer my phone when it rings. I scramble for it as it goes off, my ringtone—a catchy song by the 1975—echoing through the near-empty auditorium. A few of my fellow theater troupers give me odd looks as I struggle to pick up, but I honestly couldn’t care less—they’ve seen me do stranger things. If they’re not used to me by now that’s their problem. 

After nearly dropping the phone into my tupperware of cold pasta at least four times, I manage to swipe to answer the call, breathing a “hello?”

“ _Hi_ ,” says a familiar voice. “ _Sorry, I just—I hate having serious conversations over text. I, um_ _… I wanted to say that I’m not straight, either. …Sorry, that was really awkward, I should just let you enjoy your break in peace_ —”

I laugh, reassuring him that it’s fine. “I’m a mess ninety percent of the time, it’s really okay,” I say. Then I take a deep breath and a leap of faith and say, “Besides, who doesn’t enjoy talking to a very handsome man?”

He’s quiet for a long moment before he says, “ _Who, me? You can_ _’t mean me._ ”

God, he’s adorable. “Who else would I mean, Percy dear? I mean, shoot me down whenever, but—”

He laughs. “ _I_ _’m not shooting you down. Maybe even… maybe even the opposite, actually._ ”

“Color me intrigued,” I drawl. “Do say more.”

“ _Well it_ _’s just… um, this is maybe a little out there, but… how would you like to go for coffee sometime?_ ”

I’m grinning a very stupid grin as I clutch the phone to my cheek, cheeks flushed to the high heavens. I’m aware that I look ridiculous, and that everyone nearby can see it, but I can’t stop as I say, “Darling, I thought you’d never ask.”

He laughs, a huff of relief. “ _Well. In that case, how does Saturday after class sound?_ ”

The confidence that’s begun to seep into his voice does something for me that I’m really not complaining about. “That sounds excellent,” I say, my voice nearly a purr.

“ _Good_ ,” he says, just as soft, and then I hear some indistinct talking on his end. “ _Ah. Sorry to cut this short but I_ _’ve got to go. I’ll see you then?_ ”

“Yeah. Text me in the meantime!” I say. We say a few farewells, then I hang up, feeling _stupidly_ happy. Happy enough that I sing most of my responses for the rest of the afternoon, likely annoying the shit out of every single one of my troupe members. I’m humming all the way home on the train, ignoring the strange looks I get. I even duck into Adrian’s room once I get home to ruffle his hair, laughing as he curses me out into the hallway.

Things don’t stop there. The texts continue, getting smoother and quicker as we learn each others’ typing quirks. By Wednesday we’ve hit a rhythm, weaving ourselves effortlessly around each other, and by the time I finish telling Percy the story about the time that I stole a box from one of my high school teachers, a certain Mr. Duke, after the man pissed me off, I realize that it’s nearly 1 AM and we’ve been talking nonstop for coming on six hours.

🎻🎶🌺🌺🌺: _Why tho? Why steal the box?_

Me: _He was asking for it! He hated me because he knew my dad and kept insisting that the apple doesn_ _’t fall far from the tree._

Me: _Also hey, it_ _’s pretty late—do you need to sleep?_

🎻🎶🌺🌺🌺: _I do, but I like talking to you._

I like talking to him, too. It’s so easy—easy like the sleepovers I used to have with Rhee as a kid, when we’d stay up way too late and talk about everything and nothing until we both nodded off together, sentences falling apart even as we struggled to stay awake. 

God, do I miss having a friend like that… a friend who knew everything there was to know about me, and I her, a beautiful mutual understanding that only kids can have. I wish I could do the same with Percy, now—to just let go and tell him all my secrets in the dead of the night. But I have a job I need to hold down, and I get cranky when I don’t get enough sleep, and I know Percy has things to do, as well, so I let him go with a promise that we’ll talk again tomorrow. 

And we do. We do, and it’s not what I had with Rhee but it’s so achingly similar all the same that I’m struck with a strange idea that I need to find Rhee once again just so that I can introduce the two of them to each other. They’d strike it off really well, I’m convinced of it. So convinced, in fact, that after work on Thursday I find myself sitting in the living room in an enormous sweatshirt—it’s Adrian’s, but the kid forfeits rights to his comfy clothes if he leaves them on the living room floor for too long—waiting for my shitty old laptop to boot up so I can go scrawling across facebook again.

I’m determined. I _will_ find Rhee this time, I can feel it in my gut. Why? Because this time I have a plan, and that plan begins and ends with the near-photographic memory of my dear little sister, Felicity. 

Assuming she’s in the mood to talk to me.

“ _This better be good, Monty, I just got off a shift and I need to shower_ ,” she says, when she picks up the video call. A good start—if she really didn’t want to talk she’d have declined without picking up. 

I grin, flashing my dimples. “Dearest sister. My lovely, lovely spring blossom of a surgical resident—”

“ _Monty_.”

“Okay, yes, getting to the point. You remember Rhiannon?”

“ _You two were only fused at the pelvis. How could I forget?_ ”

I shrug. “You forgot Johanna pretty quickly after we moved, so I think it’s a fair question.”

“ _Losing patience. Also I didn_ _’t forget about her, we just… had a falling out and I didn’t care to think back on it. Not that you care_.”

“I care! I’m a big brother, of _course_ I care—”

“ _Monty_.”

Fine. Let her strike down my brotherly love before it can break through the ice around her heart. It’s her loss. God, she’s so difficult sometimes… I shake my head, getting to the point. “I’m trying to find Rhiannon on facebook and I can’t remember her last name.”

“… _And_?”

“And you’re a genius! You’re a hot-shot surgeon! You’ve got to remember!”

She must really be tired, because her lips don’t do that twitch that means she’s fighting down a smile at the compliment. “ _Don_ _’t you have a yearbook lying around somewhere? Why did you need to bother me?_ ”

I pout. “First of all, ow. I’m not bothering you, I’m talking to you. Because I love you. Second of all, I lost all my yearbooks when we got moved out of the house. Pretty sure dear old dad tossed them in a fire. _Third_ of all, if you want me to call back some other time all you’ve gotta do is say so.”

She sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. “ _Right. Sorry. It_ _’s been a long day. We saw a multi-vehicular crash at six this morning, and that was only the beginning._ ”

“…You want to talk about it?”

“ _Not if you_ _’re going to get all squeamish on me like you did last time._ ”

“I don’t mean all the gross details! I mean, like—I don’t know, your feelings or something,” I huff.

“ _I_ _’d rather not. Can we get back to Rhiannon?_ ”

“Yes, fine. Let’s do that.”

“ _Newton_.”

“What?”

“ _Her last name was Newton_.”

“Like that one science dude?”

“… _Do you perhaps mean Isaac Newton? The man generally considered one of the most influential figures in the history of science?_ ”

“That’s the one! That bastard ruined like three years of my life.”

Felicity rolls her eyes. She then says something under her breath, likely a scathing remark about how hopeless I am. I hum, only half listening, already typing the name into facebook’s search bar. 

It… comes up with nothing. At least nothing nearby, and all the people I scroll through with that name are decidedly not the Rhee I remember. I frown, leaning back. “Are you sure?” I ask.

“ _Yes, Monty, it_ _’s Newton like the bastard Isaac Newton_.”

“But I still can’t find her.”

“ _Not my problem. Anything else?_ ”

“Uhhh… no, I guess not? Oh, wait! Yes, actually! Have you ever heard of a Percy Nicks?”

“ _The singer_?”

“He sings? I thought he played violin.”

She rolls her eyes. “ _People can have more than one skill, Monty_.”

“I’m aware,” I say, rolling my eyes back. Sass runs in the family, though I think the eye-rolling is Felicity’s specialty. 

“ _Why do you bring him up?_ ”

“Because I met him. I’m kinda… going out on a date with him this weekend.”

Felicity is silent for a long moment, squinting at me. “… _You_ _’re joking_ ,” she says at last.

“No? I met him at the Eleftheria. Didn’t know he was famous until he accidentally brought some paparazzi with him. He’s pretty popular, apparently.”

“ _Yeah, it_ _’s because he’s trans. He’s huge in the queer community_.”

“Really? Then how come I haven’t heard him?” I ask. She doesn’t answer, just frowns and leans closer to her screen. “Wait, are you looking him up?” I ask.

“ _Uh, yeah. Because there_ _’s no way you actually met Percy Nicks_.”

“Wow. Just go and slander my good name, why don’t you. Why are you doubting me, anyway? I used to roadie for local musicians and some of them opened for some pretty big bands, so—”

She’s not listening to me. I trail off, watching her as she scrolls. She’s quiet for a long moment, and I can see a page of google images drifting past in the reflection off her glasses. Finally she stops and leans back. “ _Hey_ ,” she says, “ _about Rhiannon and Percy_ —”

Whatever she’s about to say is cut off by a crash in the kitchen, followed by a yell. 

I jump and drop the laptop to the floor, whirling around. For a split second I’m caught between fight and flight, my breath bottlenecked behind my heart, which has leapt up into my throat. The silence rings as I wait for the second crash that I know, I _know_ will follow the first—

“— _onty, hey, is everything okay?_ ”

No crash comes. “Uh—” I say, still half-frozen. When did my hands come up? I force them back down, swiping one of them down my face as it goes. When I pick the laptop up again Felicity is staring at me, her face open with concern, and I huff a laugh. “Yeah, sorry, I think—Adrian must have dropped something? I need to go check on him—”

Felicity waves me off, ending the call with a soft, “… _I_ _’ll talk to you soon. Tell him I said hi, okay?_ ” 

“Okay,” I say, hardly more than a whisper. As her image disappears from the screen I suck in a deep breath, bracing myself. Then I set the laptop down, stand up, and walk myself to the kitchen.

I find Adrian on his knees, carefully picking up the shards of one of our mixing bowls. That alone is enough to ease the tension from my shoulders—cleanup usually meant the event was over, and we’d be safe so long as we didn’t set him off again. I step a little closer, careful of my bare feet, and Adrian glances up.

“I swear, if you call me a butterfingers—” he starts, only to stop and double take. “Hey, are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” I say. My voice must be pretty unconvincing because he frowns, straightening up. I wave him away. “Get out of here, you’re gonna cut yourself doing that.”

“…I’m not letting you do it,” he says slowly, staring at me.

I huff. “I’m the adult, I clean the broken glass, them’s the rules—”

“One, I’m fourteen. Two, it’s ceramic, not glass, and _three_ —you’re shaking.”

“Wha—shaking?” I glance down at my hands. He’s right—they have a definite tremor to them. 

Traitorous bastards. I open my mouth, intending to make a joke about it, but I’m apparently running at half speed because before I can do anything Adrian is on his feet, pushing me back into the living room.

“Sit down, I’ll get you some water,” he says.

 _I don_ _’t want water_. 

I flinch at the sandpaper roughness of the thought, my eyes going wide. It’s on the tip of my tongue to say it, to say what I really want—a drink, just one drink, just one _teeny little itsy bitsy drink_ —but thankfully before it can come out Adrian is back, pushing a glass of tap water into my hand.

I take it, muttering a thank you. Even though it’s the last thing I want. Even though everything inside of me is screeching that I would actually rather self-destruct and run my whole life into the ground than have a drink of water. I brush the thoughts away and I take it and I drink because Adrian deserves better. Felicity deserves better. Scipio deserves better. Rhiannon, if I ever find her, deserves better.

🎻🎶🌺🌺🌺: _Have a good night, Monty_.

I stare down at the text, schooling my breath and letting the tension seep from my bones. Percy, darling Percy… he deserves the best me I can give him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References:  
> 23) Adrian’s big sweatshirt (what he needs)  
> 24) Darling as a general pet name (marks)  
> 25) Sinjon’s blue eyes (marks)  
> 26) the basseggio box (marks)
> 
> Updates after this will probably get more sporadic as the chapters aren't done yet. :"D


	5. F/

I feel better, as generally happens, after I’ve gotten a good night’s sleep. It’s like a reset for the brain—turn it off and back on again and voila, all your problems are solved! 

Well, except for bills. And hangovers. And sometimes the fact that you’ve woken up before your one night stand and you’re in your own bed so you can’t just sneak out while they’re asleep so you have to awkwardly get up and start making breakfast and hope that they don’t take that as an invitation to overstay their welcome. 

I digress. The point is that I feel better, and I’m back to my normal programming of flirtatious texting, screwing around at work, and sharing teasing dinners with Adrian in no time at all. Life isn’t perfect, but it is pretty damn good, and before I know it Saturday’s bookbinding class is nigh upon me.

As is the next phase of Scipio’s plan to keep Percy coming back for as long as possible.

“What do you mean? What else could we possibly cover?” I ask, baffled, when Scipio informs me that we just aren’t ready for coptic stitch at this point in time. I’m leaning on the _Eleftheria_ _’s_ counter, pretending to organize the daily mail dump. What I’m doing instead is watching out the front window for Percy. You know, just in case the paparazzi turn up and give him a hard time.

Scipio hums. “There are a few other methods we can try. Case binding, for instance. I’ve never run a workshop on case binding, but I think with the way these two-on-one classes are set up we could do it without too much mess. I was also thinking about trying paper marbling. I think you two would enjoy that.”

I hum back, shuffling some spam letters around. He’s really dragging this out, isn’t he? Just decided to go all out and teach us everything he knows for as long a time as possible? …Not to say that isn’t fine by me. Scipio gets to spend time with his celebrity crush, Percy gets to learn a new craft, I get to sneak peeks at the hot guy who I’ve been flirting with for the past week—it works out for everyone.

I blink out of my thoughts as my phone vibrates. I pull it out.

🎻🎶🌺🌺🌺: _Hey, orange or pink?_

Me: _Pink if it_ _’s clothing or lemonade, orange if it’s anything else._

🎻🎶🌺🌺🌺: _You responded awfully fast. Are you sure about that?_

Me: _Of course I_ _’m sure, darling. Are you suggesting I don’t know my colors?_

🎻🎶🌺🌺🌺: _I wouldn_ _’t dare._

Me: _Why do you ask, anyway?_

🎻🎶🌺🌺🌺: _You_ _’ll see ;)_

🎻🎶🌺🌺🌺: _Anyway, hope your day has been good so far. If not I_ _’ll be there soon to kick its ass into gear._

I bite the inside of my cheek, smiling to myself. God, he’s so sweet? And I’ll bet that whatever he’s got planned will be equally sweet. What on earth am I supposed to do with myself if he gets here and his thoughtful ass brought a present for me? Combust? God.

I’m waiting with bated breath when he arrives a few minutes later holding a paper bag. Before I can even ask what’s in it he’s whisking out a donut for me, one with orange icing and rainbow sprinkles, wrapped in wax paper.

“From Callum’s bakery in the city. You mentioned you were craving them the other day,” he says, when my eyes go wide.

“Wow, you remember what I say when I go rambling on?” I ask. It’s true, I’ve been craving one of these for a week straight now. I’m not as into sweets anymore—sometimes eating too much sugar makes my stomach hurt, a fact that has had Adrian laughing hysterically more times than I can count—but there’s something about these specific donuts from that specific shop that has hijacked my thoughts. 

Percy nods, looking at me with a sweet, cautiously expectant smile, like he’s half-ready for me to reject him and his donuts both. “Of course I do,” he says, and he’s standing so close to me that I have to look up into his face. He’s so painfully sincere that I almost feel like he isn’t just talking about the donut, though I couldn’t fathom what else he could possibly mean.

I reach out and carefully take the treat, thanking him as I do. I take a slow bite.

…Sweet as can be. I _called_ it. Literally, in this case. God, I’m going to treasure this donut for the rest of my life. Ooor maybe just the five minutes it takes to eat it. Either one.

I glance from Percy’s sincere eyes down to his lips. They’re wonderfully full, pink, with a softness that makes heat rise in my gut. I wonder, in passing, if they are, perhaps, as sugar-glazed as mine. Would his breath smell sweet, would his lips taste saccharine should I close the scant distance between us? I’m not sure, but I want to find out.

And I _would_ have, if one of Scipio’s regulars and a casual friend of mine, Dante, hadn’t chosen that moment to bluster into the shop, going on about the book he asked us to order for him.

God. _Damn_. The book people.

I help Dante get himself sorted out before taking my seat at our crafting table. I’m in a haze of sugary bliss when I realize that I’m the only one there. Percy and Scipio are nowhere to be seen. 

Well. I shuffle around some papers, looking at all the cool designs, like the one with the lightning bolts all over it. I’m particularly fond of the Halloween pack Scipio got in October—little sketchy skeleton keys made of bones and vampires surrounded by drops of blood. There’s also a really fancy one with gold foil on it that’s supposed to look like _kintsugi_ , the Japanese art of mending cracked pots with lacquer and precious metals, but as I search for it I realize that it’s missing.

I hum to myself, pushing up onto my feet. We must have left it in the closet somewhere. If we still have some I think I might try using it to make something for Percy. Not anything super intense, but like… I don’t know. Some paper cutouts or something. Maybe a little bit of origami. I’ve never done it, but Scipio’s old lady friends who drop by the shop, the grandmothers, are always telling me stories revolving around hope and resilience, like the _kintsugi_ and paper cranes and stuff. It just seems like something that might make a good present. Something thoughtful. If Percy is going to be indulging my donut cravings I might as well burn some calories making him something in return.

I’ve got my nose in the supply closet looking for the _kintsugi_ paper when I hear whispering near the store room. I lean out, cocking my head. That’s Scipio. And… Percy? What on earth are they back there conspiring about?

Wait. Hold up. It’s April. Early April, but still, that means my birthday is coming up. Are they… could they be…

…but no, there’s no way…

…unless…

I take a step closer, careful with the closet door so it doesn’t snap closed and give me away. Percy is saying something about… letters? Letters that he’s been saving, maybe? 

Hm. I can’t hear very well thanks to my right ear, so I take another step, turning to the right to accommodate for it. This time, unfortunately, I’m betrayed by the floorboards, which squeak under my weight. 

I wince as the voices grind to a halt. “Monty?” Scipio calls after a moment of silence.

Ah. Busted. Guess the gig is up. “What are you two plotting about back here?” I ask, announcing my presence and sweeping around toward the storeroom. As I come upon them Percy coughs, suddenly occupied with one of the books from a nearby box. 

“Plotting? Why would we be plotting?” he asks, casually turning a page. He is entirely unconvincing, not least of all because the book is upside-down.

I squint. Something is going on. I don’t _know_ why they would be plotting unless it actually is for my birthday, but whatever is going on is a secret. A puzzle. A mystery. And I _will_ get to the bottom of it, mark my words.

I bide my time until the end of the class, watching closely to see if either of them will slip up. They don’t, but I still find my chance. It comes while Percy is busy organizing paper in the supply closet—with him occupied and out of my way, Scipio is susceptible to interrogation.

I take the opening and _pounce_ _…_

…only to be rebuffed by the most sincerely disparaging look I’ve ever seen in my life. I back off, raising my hands in the air in surrender. Seems like I’m not going to get answers after all. Jesus. Scipio is a big softie most of the time, but there are moments when I can see him as the fearsome captain of a terrifying pirate crew, ready to chop off a hostage’s finger to mail it off to their family for ransom money. Like for real, the dude can be scary when he wants to. Which means that when me and Percy head out at the end of class to find a nice coffee shop to sit in for a while, I still have no idea what the two of them are up to.

Feeling put out, I try to push it from my mind. I am, after all, heading toward a coffee shop with Percy—this is not the time nor the place to be distracted by things that might not but probably do have something to do with me that are being kept secret from me for reasons I have yet to uncover. 

Whatever. I glance over at Percy, appreciating his profile for a moment as we stand just outside the _Eleftheria_ together. “So,” he says. He tightens a hand on the strap of his violin case, glancing back over to me with a small smile. “How about that little place on the pier?”

As if I could say no to a face like that. I squint at Scipio over my shoulder and through the window one last time as we set off, Percy commenting on the little shack on the seaside cliffs that the locals call the ‘mausoleum’. I turn back around to tell him the story as we walk, going out of my way to really sell the voices of the wealthy old woman who supposedly died on the property and the old grounds keeper who supposedly killed her. 

“By all accounts, it was his love—or perhaps his jealousy—that killed her in the end,” I say, voice low, brushing my knuckles against Percy’s. I’m not sure if we’re at a point yet where I can take his hand, but rest assured that I desperately want to. I don’t believe in ghost stories but I almost wish I did just to have an excuse to cross the last few inches of space between us.

Percy shivers in the cool breeze, crossing the planks of the pier. “You really think that’s what happened?” he asks. “Seems a little far fetched, doesn’t it?”

I shrug. “People in small towns are like that sometimes. There’s always that one guy who just can’t handle it, for one reason or another.”

I don’t mention the fact that I know this because I came from a small town, and my father was one of those people. I know Percy will get the story eventually—it would be impossible to keep it to myself forever—but for now we’ll stick with the maybe-true-maybe-apocrypha of the spooky shack on the edge of the sea, and even that doesn’t last us long as we segue into conversation about one of Scipio’s comics, Percy holding the door of the coffee shop open for me.

We’ve got our coffee—Percy pays, despite my protests—and have just settled down at one of the tables by the front window when Percy’s phone goes off. He tips his head at it, pursing his lips, before he raises his eyes to me.

I’m already waving him off. “If you need to take it then take it,” I say, leaning back with my mocha. “I’ll just enjoy the view.”

“Oh, stop,” he says, and then gets up to head outside and answer the call, though there’s a smile playing at his lips as he does. It falls away too soon, however, as he speaks with whoever is on the other side of the line—true to my word, I watch through the window, categorizing every minute change in Percy’s demeanor all the way until he slips back inside, huffing an enormous sigh.

“Let me guess,” I say. “It’s an emergency.”

“They need me to rerecord a song we’ve been working on and the only time my collaborator can meet before she goes overseas for two months is right now,” he says. “I’m sorry, maybe we could pick this up again afterward…? Unless you’d like to sit in on a session, anyway.”

“Am I allowed to do that?” I ask, interest immediately piqued. 

Percy shrugs. “I trust you not to record it on your phone and leak it to the media.”

I laugh aloud. “Well, now you’ve given me the idea. About how much would that go for?”

A smile twitches at the corners of his lips. “A decent amount, but it would be awfully rude seeing as I just bought you coffee.”

“Ah, I see. Well, in that case it’s very lucky that you picked up the bill, hmm?” I say, standing. “Lead the way!”

He does, calling up a car from god knows where and bundling us into the backseat. It’s no limo but it’s still nicer than anything I’ve seen in just about twenty years. I feel like I’m a kid again, getting chauffeured around by my father’s drivers.

This is nothing compared to how I feel when we hit the city and immediately veer for the classy area of downtown. I commute to the city every day but the theater I work for is barely inside the city proper—it doesn’t have the glam and the glitz that this place does. We stop outside a massive building easily six times the size of my apartment building, all crafted from sleek gray stone with black-tinted windows and a giant red ‘Vision Studios’ down one side.

The inside, I find, is also sleek and glamorous, though in a slightly more homey way. It’s in the leather couches and high-class recording equipment in the dark studios we pass, and the candid photos of famous musicians framed and hung on the walls. I hum, taking it all in, itching again to take Percy’s hand. But he’s clutching at his violin strap once more, and I determine with a low sigh that now isn’t the time. 

We arrive to a lit studio a few minutes later. “You’ll be okay in the booth?” Percy asks, biting his lip, one hand rising to rest on my shoulder.

I wriggle my phone. “Don’t worry about me, I’ve got Futurama. If that fails to entertain I can always record you and sell it to the highest bidder.”

Percy quirks his lips up in a smile. “I’ll try to make this quick, then,” he says, and squeezes my shoulder lightly before heading into the studio. I ignore the look the booth’s occupant gives me, sitting down beside them.

“So,” I say, and flash my dimples. “Music, huh?”

They are not amused.

Thankfully, I don’t have to rely on them for entertainment. Futurama, too, turns out to be superfluous in the grand scheme of things. I don’t have time to watch it, not with the utter delight of watching musicians play live. Understandably, I find my eyes on Percy more often than not, as his fingers dance over the neck of his violin. He moves so fast, so fluidly, that I swear I forget to breathe during each take and have to gasp in air when he breaks to listen to what he’s recorded so far. I never could have guessed that a mere fiddle could be so beautiful—I am a self-admitted heathen when it comes to music, after all. Eighties synths speak to me, what can I say?

It’s two hours before Percy’s team decides they have enough to work with, and I meet Percy at the studio door. “Brava, you did _marvelous_ , darling,” I say, grinning up at him.

He flushes at the words, scrubbing a hand down his cheek in embarrassment. “You were listening? I thought you were watching Futurama?”

“ _Futurama_? When you were putting on a show of your own?! Percy, dear, no one in their _right mind_ would watch old adult cartoons while you were playing,” I say, dismissing the mere thought.

The look he gives me… you’d have thought that no one cared to watch him play before. Before I can ask, however, he’s talking about maybe getting dinner in the city before he takes me home, an offer that I have to decline seeing as my fourteen-year-old ward is home alone and if I leave him there all evening I’ll arrive back at our apartment to find that he’s cut all the sleeves off all his shirts. _Without_ me.

Percy still insists on having me driven home, though, and the thought of protesting such an action is so far from my mind it might as well be in Antarctica. His hand rests on the seat between us and I feel like I’m fourteen, myself, dealing with taking a date to my first real school dance. Next thing you know I’ll be sweating through my deodorant and fumbling a kiss at the door so badly that my lips will wind up on his ear.

I don’t, thankfully. I do, however, find myself smiling like a loon as I wave him off from the curb with plans to have another date, a real date, sometime soon.

I grin. In the meantime, I have a mystery to solve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References:   
> 27) Patterns like lightning (marks)  
> 28) Drawing of a key (marks)  
> 29) Drops of blood (marks)  
> 30) Kintsugi (marks)  
> 31) the local haunted house (into the tomb)


	6. /G

On Wednesday night Adrian announces that he has a history project for school due the next day and needs to go to the bookstore right now immediately. I, being the utterly amazing and incredibly good-looking guardian that I am, offer to take him. After he offers me a chocolate bar from his stash, anyway.

I sidle into the shop on Adrian’s tail, slinking my way up to the counter and to Scipio behind it. I haven’t gotten any more hints from Percy about the mystery despite some near-constant texting, but I have a feeling that I can get Scipio to crack. It can’t be _that_ hard—I can be a persistent bastard when given the opportunity, and they have provided _ample_ opportunity.

“So—” I begin.

Scipio lets out a deep sigh, cutting me off before I’ve even really started. “Don’t,” he says, a warning in his voice.

I pout. Thwarted once again. So much for _that_. “You’re really not going to tell me what you and Percy are planning, huh?” I ask.

Scipio shakes his head, watching as Adrian browses one of the shelves in the biography section. “Nope,” he says, and his tone brooks no argument.

I frown a moment longer. “Hm. But you didn’t dispute the fact that you’re planning something, so that _must_ mean there is something being planned by you two.”

Scipio taps his fingers on the counter, an overt display of boredom and annoyance. “You’ve already decided we are, who am I to disagree?” he asks, so dismissive that I’m almost convinced that it’s all in my head. 

Almost.

Still, it looks like I’m going to have to wait and see what they’re up to. I groan. I can’t believe they’re going to make me _wait_ , _ugh_. Don’t they know how bad I am at waiting? What other indignities do they have planned for me? Are they going to make me dance like a monkey while they’re at it?!

…Scipio does not look amused when I say this aloud. 

“Look,” he says, and slides a book across the counter like some sort of dramatic b-movie antagonist sliding a roll of hundred dollar bills across a card table. “Just… try and focus on something else, hm?”

I sulkily pick up the book, flipping it open. “Is this poetry?” I ask, unconvinced.

“It’s a novel written in verse. It’s supposed to be about teenagers dealing with mental health issues.”

Hm. That sounds… not so bad. I suppose I can give it a shot. It’s not like I have anything better to do. 

I start on it during my commute the next day, opening the book to the first page and beginning to read. I get a whopping five pages in before my brain decides to fizzle out, my eyes skidding over the words. There’s something about the style that makes it hard to follow, and I am so incredibly lost already that it’s giving me flashbacks to reading Romeo and Juliet in high school. 

Giving up, I pull out my phone instead, sending a quick text to Percy.

Me: Fair warning: don’t read books in verse. It’s a new form of torture.

🎻🎶🌺🌺🌺: ??? 

🎻🎶🌺🌺🌺: What are you reading?

Me: Uhh. Impulse by Ellen Hopkins.

🎻🎶🌺🌺🌺: Oh. Scipio gave me a copy last week. It wasn’t so bad. Do you want me to make some notes for you?

Me: God, please.

🎻🎶🌺🌺🌺: I’ll bring them to you on Saturday. In the meantime don’t hurt yourself.

Me: :P

I smile to myself, completely at odds with the little emoticon face. Percy is a lovely, selfless person. It’s sweet. I should really do something in return. Pull together my origami plan, maybe. Or find some nice sweets to buy. Perhaps I can turn pastries into a thing between us—might be bad news for my waistband but that’s a small price to pay, all things considered. 

…Which of course means that all my various theoretical plans are foiled when I wake up Saturday morning with the mother of all sore throats. I whine into my pillow, snorting back snot. Why, god, why.

My voice is nearly gone when I drag myself out of bed half an hour later, and I have to get Adrian to call Scipio for me to tell him the news. Scipio, as I knew he would, immediately goes into mother hen mode and tells us that he’ll send someone over with some soup. I try to demure so that he’s not working himself up about me—honestly my plan is to just sleep it off—but he refuses to hear it. I resign myself to being mothered by proxy.

I have slept for about an hour, buried under a blanket on the living room sofa, surrounded by the notes for my play that I gave up reading halfway through, when the buzzer rings. 

“Door!” Adrian says, sticking his head into the living room.

“You get it. I’m not sure if I can move right now,” I rasp, throwing an arm over my eyes.

He rolls his eyes. “You’re fine. It’s just a cold.”

“I’m dying.”

“As if.”

“No, really, I am. I’m writing my will as we speak.”

“You are _not_.”

“Keep that up and I’m not going to give you my good Hawaiian shirt.”

“I don’t want it.”

“Of course you do. It’s designer.”

“…Oh my god.”

I snicker to myself, watching as he goes up to the intercom and hits the button to go, “Yeah?”

A voice crackles through the speaker, too far away for me to understand. I roll over, wiping at my face with a tissue as Adrian hums and says, “Sorry, Monty is dying right now and can’t answer the door. Unless you’re the soup delivery I’m afraid you’ll have to come back later.”

Another crackle, and Adrian frowns. “Sorry, who is this?” he asks.

This time I hear enough to make out the syllables of Percy’s name. I smile dopily to myself, a flutter in my stomach. Scipio sent Percy over, that’s—

Wait. Scipio sent _Percy_ over. I sit up straight, suddenly stricken. Percy is here, and I am a _mess_. I’m snotty and I can hardly talk and I’m at ground zero of an absolute disaster zone of play notes and ah, fuck, there’s the knock at the door, Adrian must have already let him up—

I fumble, shoveling my notes into their folder like a madman as Adrian opens the door. And then closes the door with a snap. And then stands there, stunned, staring at the snappishly closed door.

Frowning, I rasp out, “What is it?”

Adrian turns like an automaton, all rote mechanical motion. “Am I getting pranked?” he asks, his voice cracking just slightly.

I frown harder, my hands slowing on the notes. I am running at sixty percent speed right now—half of the space in my brain feels like it’s taken up by snot and I’m all out of sorts. “What? What do you mean? Why did you close the door?” I ask.

Adrian raises a hand, swinging it wildly. “Percy Nicks! Is in the hallway!” he says.

“Yes?” I ask, growing more confused by the moment. “And?”

The poor kid looks like he’s going to explode, his mouth gaping open like a fish. “He’s _famous_!” he manages after a long moment.

“Oh. Yeah.” I finish shoveling notes and swing my legs over the side of the couch so that I can open the door myself.

Adrian stops me, throwing an arm across my chest to hiss, “’ _Yeah_ ’? That’s all you have to say?!”

“Well, what do you want me to say?!” I hiss back.

“How do you know Percy Nicks?!”

I huff. “He came into the bookshop and we struck up a conversation! Am I not allowed to have a life?!”

“Percy! Nicks! Is a celebrity! He is not your life!”

Wow, rude much?! “Need I remind you that I’ve met famous musicians before?” I ask, cross.

Adrian throws up his hands. “I’m talking about modern times, Monty, not that one time that you roadied for some locals in the seventies.”

God, the sass! “Exactly how old do you think I am?!” I demand, but Adrian seems to have given up on making sense of my life and is now swinging open the door once more, revealing a Percy who has been waiting patiently on the other side, a grocery bag in his hands and his violin slung over his back.

“Um. Hi,” he says, a small smile curving across his lips, looking between us before focusing on the teenager. “You must be Adrian.”

Adrian stares, looking like he’s half a second away from slamming the door closed once again.

I snort. “Sorry about that,” I say, leaning past the poor kid and clearing my throat in the hopes that the words will come out less like they’ve been processed through a meat grinder. “He’s, ah… a fan.”

“God, Monty, shut _up_ ,” Adrian mutters, throwing an elbow into my ribs. I ignore him, inviting Percy inside. 

He comes with a tentative grin, slipping his shoes off at the door like a perfect gentleman. As Adrian disappears down the hall, presumably to text everyone he’s ever met to tell them that I know a celebrity, I take the bag from Percy, setting it on the coffee table to peer inside. There’s the compulsory tupperware of Scipio soup, and a little basket of muffins, and… ah. Right. The verse book, absolutely covered in sticky notes with Percy’s neat handwriting.

“So,” Percy says, and I look up. He’s by the aloe plants at the window, but his eyes are cut to the side, watching me. “Adrian said you were dying. Should I be worried?”

I hum, ignoring the insistent scratch in my throat. “That depends.”

“On?”

“Whether or not you manage to get written into my will, obviously.”

Percy laughs, turning toward me. “Oh? And what would I get, if I were written in?”

“My good Hawaiian shirt needs a home after I’m gone,” I rasp.

“Well, in that case.” He smiles, coming to stand beside me. “Tell me what to do and I’ll do it. I wouldn’t want to miss out on that Hawaiian shirt.”

I smile right back, all thoughts of how gross I am flying out the window at the fond look in his eyes. “Finally, someone with good taste,” I say, and for a moment it’s like we’re on an island all our own, no illness and no responsibilities, the real world a distant land far off on the horizon, just the two of us and the happiness he brings me.

Then, of course, I sneeze and the whole charade is ruined.

“Ugh,” I groan, bundling myself into my blankets and flopping back onto the couch. “Wake me up next century.”

“Soup first,” Percy says, and I begrudgingly make an opening in the blanket for my face and hands. I eat slowly, fussing over the temperature and the veggies and the absolutely ludicrous amounts of chile pepper. Percy looks on, giving gentle encouragement until I accidentally get some of the pepper up my nose, after which he laughs and I whine that he’s not allowed to look at me anymore. He gets up to water my aloe plants as I instruct, shaking his head the whole time.

After I’m done eating, I curl up again, blowing my nose. “Ugh,” I say. 

“I’m sorry you’re not feeling so hot,” Percy says, sympathetic.

I wave him away. “It’s fine. The worst part is the whining I’m going to have to deal with.”

Percy tilts his head. “Whining?”

“Yeah. Whining. I promised the kid I’d help him dye his hair today, but, well.” I gesture dramatically at the pathetic state of myself.

It’s not strictly true. I did promise some hair dye, but we didn’t have a set date for it. If Percy and Scipio can scheme, however, then so can I—and as long as I have Percy in the house I’m going to keep him around for as long as humanly possible. I have, ahem, _tricks aplenty_ up my sleeves.

“…I can help, if Adrian wants?” Percy says, just like I knew he would. I grin behind my blanket. Success.

The soup, it turns out, is a veritable tranquilizer—no sooner have they pulled out the instructions on the bleach bottle than I conk out on the couch, drooling on a throw pillow. I manage to wake up a few times to see Percy and Adrian chatting animatedly, Percy with plastic gloves on as he spreads goop into Adrian’s hair. The third time I blink into semi-consciousness, Adrian is a blur of green and Percy is holding up a hand mirror for him so he can see the back of his head. 

I slip back into unconsciousness after that, and apparently that’s it for my body—it’s out for good. I don’t wake again until early morning, blinking my eyes in that weird still place just before the sun rises, when the world is dark but not quite night-dark. 

Ugh. I feel like a bog body, like I’ve been marinating in my own juices. I groan loudly just because I can.

And then jump, as a head pops up on the other side of the coffee table. “What is it?” Percy asks, hair a rats nest. 

“What are you still doing here?” I rasp, hand on my heart like a little old lady.

Percy rubs his face, blinking slowly in the dim light. “Um. You were asleep so me and Adrian ordered some food, and then I just… didn’t leave?”

I lean over the coffee table, taking in the little blanket fort he’s camping out in. It’s not the greatest, but I’d recognize Adrian’s work (and his baby blankets) anywhere—they must have had some fun while I was out.

Percy shuffles and clears his throat. “I can go,” he says, obviously embarrassed.

“If you leave now I will never forgive you,” I say. “Now scoot over, I’m coming in.”

I don’t wait, rolling right off the couch with my blanket and wriggling like a caterpillar around the coffee table. Adrian stopped building blanket forts with me when he was twelve or so—it’s been a few years since I’ve gotten to have something like this. It’s been even longer since I’ve gotten to have it with a friend. The last time I made a blanket fort as a kid… god. It must have been with Rhee.

There’s something special about sharing it with Percy, all these years later.

“Comfortable?” Percy asks, from somewhere outside my blanket burrito, when I come to a stop. I hum, already drowsing again. “Good,” he whispers, and I feel his hand stroke my hair back once, twice, three times before I’m out, just like that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 32) Hand mirror (wlbtlg)  
> 33) Aloe Plants (the number twenty)


	7. C

“Pancake mix is in the cabinet. No, no—the other cabinet.”

Percy adjusts course, opening the cabinet by the refrigerator just as Adrian walks in, all mussed green hair and a matching green Legend of Zelda sleep shirt. I hum to the kid, nursing the tissue box I have held to my chest. 

“You still sound like balls,” he says in response, picking up an apple from the bowl on the counter and biting off a good third of it. It’s so much that he can’t close his mouth properly, and I make a face. 

“You _look_ like balls. Close your mouth when you eat, jesus, who raised you,” I say. Not my best comeback, but to be fair I’m currently doing an impressive impersonation of a faucet so I think I deserve some slack.

Alas, it doesn’t come. What comes instead is a customary teenage eye roll and a snicker from the stove, which Percy promptly muffles into his sleeve. 

The _nerve_.

“Do you use spray or butter?” Percy asks a moment later, distracting me from my sulking. He’s still wearing his clothes from yesterday, though significantly more wrinkled, the sleeves of his shirt folded up to his elbows to expose strong brown forearms. I could have swooned if I weren’t mad at him for laughing at me. I point him toward the cooking spray, sniffling to myself and cataloging the visual for a later date, when I am no longer mad.

“Here,” Percy says a few minutes later, sliding a plate in front of me. Two eggs and two pancakes, complete with a little cut strawberry arranged like a smiley face. 

I laugh aloud, delighted. “Oh my god. I’m taking a picture of this and telling the entire world that Percy Nicks is the cutest person on the surface of the earth.”

Beside me, Adrian chokes, looking at me with wild eyes as Percy returns to tending the stove, shaking his head as he goes. “Wha—cutest?” Adrian whispers frantically, ducking close to me as I pull out my phone, as if hoping that Percy can’t hear him over the sounds of the stove. “Monty, are you and Percy Nicks a _thing_?”

What a good question. We’ve flirted, yes. Had half a date, yes. Slept together, literally, in the blanket fort, yes. But does a little flirtation a ‘thing’ make? 

Unclear. I’d _like_ it to be a thing, undoubtedly, but it isn’t quite there just yet. Maybe sometime soon. Hopefully— _hopefully_ sometime soon.

“ _Monty_ ,” Adrian whispers, clearly reading the blatant yearning in my face. I can’t tell if he’s impressed or mortified by the fact that I have my sights set on Percy, and honestly I’m not sure if either is appropriate. Percy may be a celebrity to him, but to me he’s just… well, _Percy_.

“Close your mouth,” I say again, as Percy brings a second plate to the table for the kid. Adrian clamps his mouth shut, eyes huge in his face as he thanks Percy. I finish snapping a picture of my breakfast and set about cutting up my pancakes, waiting for Percy to bring his own breakfast and sit down with us before I dig in.

Adrian, lost to whatever turmoil this realization has brought upon him, stares into the distance.

“So,” Percy says a few minutes later, when he settles in his chair. “What did you have planned for today?”

“Why, trying to get out of your obligations?” I ask, smirking around my fork. I then pause, humming in appreciation. His pancakes are, in a word, _delicious_.

Percy smiles, evidently pleased with himself. “No. Just wondering if you needed help with anything else.”

“What if I asked you to clean the toilet?” I say. “Would you still do it?”

“I’d do anything you asked,” he says, voice low, honest. Adrian makes a choked noise. Then, a twinkle of humor in his eye, Percy says, “Though for cleaning the toilet there may be a price.”

God. He’s going to kill me faster than my dramatics about the virus in my system. And he’s going to kill Adrian even faster than _that_.

“Don’t you have recordings to do?” I ask, resisting the urge to keel over right here and now and instead pulling myself together. _For the kid_ , I think, glancing over at Adrian, who is now shoveling food into his mouth with the clear intent of getting the hell out of dodge as soon as humanly possible.

Percy shrugs. “I can push it back a day or two. I’d much rather help you out if you need help than go to work knowing you needed me.”

This is, if anyone asks, the single sweetest thing that anyone has ever said to me in my entire goddamn life. I’m so touched and happy that I promptly short circuit, and my traitorous mouth, responding accordingly, decides to blurt out the first thing that comes to mind—a phrase so horrible that I feel my soul wither inside my mortal body.

It goes a little something like this:

“No, no—I can’t have you n _egg_ lecting your work.”

Upon the utterance, the table goes utterly silent, two pairs of eyes staring at me as my cheeks flush and I sniffle uncomfortably. “Was that… an egg pun?” Percy asks after an eternity of a moment, as if he can’t quite believe his ears. 

“…Yes?” I try. Adrian appears to be choking on his food, or perhaps just giving up the ghost, either/or is entirely plausible. I shrink down in my seat, utterly mortified. Trust me to ruin the mood by making a pun. 

…At least, I assume it’s been ruined. Until Percy suddenly laughs and says, “Are you _egg_ specting me to be impressed by that?”

And that’s it. He’s it. I’ve found my goddamn soulmate.

Breakfast after that is a mess of puns and pancakes and laughter, which Percy and I share as Adrian dies a slow and painful death. We eventually decide what to do about the day, splitting it evenly between Percy hanging with us and going off to the studio to work. It’s nice, and even with the lingering symptoms of my cold I feel lively and taken care of and _happy_.

The feeling sticks with me for the rest of the week. By Tuesday I’m feeling a lot better, and gladly accept an invitation to sit in on another recording session at Vision Studios after work, while Adrian is at a friend’s house for dinner. I’m not sure if I’m being supportive or obnoxious when I clap for my darling Percy between every take, but I like the way he the blush creeps up his brown cheeks and he ducks his face so I keep doing it.

After he’s done for the night, we go up to the roof of the building and sit at a little patio table that was apparently erected up there just for that purpose. He laughs when I say that the only thing that would make this perfect is some French bread and a glass of red wine, and leans over to pop open a cooler hidden by a fake fern. He pulls out a bottle of apothic crush first, making me blurt out an ungodly cackle. I decline the alcohol with a “recovering alcoholic, apologies darling,” watching as he then pulls out some sandwiches and a little covered platter of cut vegetables. 

It’s perfect. We throw food into each others mouths and pretend to stargaze despite the fact that there are only about two stars out, talking about all the books Scipio has been pushing at us. Comic books and behind the scenes of _The Haunting in Connecticut_ books and books about statues… it’s like the little book club that I never knew I wanted. And then, at the end of the night…

…when he and his driver take me home…

…he pauses just outside my door…

…and my gaze meets his…

…and his eyes are like pools of starlight…

…bright with intent…

…and before I know it he’s leaned forward and his lips are pressed to mine, a slow pressure drawing me in toward him like the magnetism that draws the needle of a compass. It’s beautiful and breathtaking and completely, utterly natural all at once, like I’m coming home by the guiding light of stars.

“…You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to do that,” Percy says, his pupils blown wide as he stares unflinchingly at me when we pull apart again.

I hum, and smirk, and drag him in for round two.

I think that’s all the confirmation I need that we are, in fact, a _thing_.

This night, this time with just the two of us, is the first time of many. Rooftop picnics and movie theater dates and art gallery exhibitions—we cram them in whenever we can, between rehearsals and recording sessions and bookbinding classes. We fit together like two pieces of a puzzle, twining together as the days go by. It feels like months have passed when in reality it’s been two weeks. Two weeks of dates and kisses and by _god_ I don’t want it to ever end. 

Easter rolls around a few days later. I convince Percy to take the day off from recording, telling him that his album will still be there waiting when he gets back on Monday. He laughs, and curls a hand around my jaw to press a kiss to my cheek. We then collect all the egg-dyeing supplies that have laid dormant ever since Adrian decided he was too mature to participate in such things, and set about hard-boiling eggs to dye. 

I’m sitting at the table scribbling on an egg with white crayon when Percy suddenly looks up past me, a smile on his lips. “Why don’t you join us?” he asks.

I look over to the doorway, to where Adrian has poked his fading green head in. He’s eyeing us with pursed lips, his desire to be ‘cool’ and ‘grown up’ warring with the desire to hang out with Percy. I nearly laugh. 

Thankfully, I resist, and Adrian slowly comes to sit at the table like a skittish bird slowly approaching a bird feeder. It’s like magic, how Percy is able to convince him that childish things can be fun and cool after all. I get to see firsthand how Percy’s personal charm draws the kid in, and by the end of two hours we have three dozen colored eggs and nothing to do with them except take a bunch of pictures and get a start on eating them all.

The week after that, a pipe bursts at the _Eleftheria_ , and Scipio lets us off the hook with our class seeing as the entire second floor of the shop is flooded. I offer to help move books but Scipio says he has Georgie on the case, and to go take a walk outside.

“The weather is too nice to stay inside, anyway,” he says pointedly, shooing me and Percy off. 

We wind up at a park not too far from Adrian’s school, where I produce a pack of cards that I forgot was in my coat pocket. We sit out at a picnic table cheating at each other until we can no longer handle the laughter, our sides stitching up, and then Percy takes out his violin and begins to play for me.

It’s a sweet melody, drifting in the light breeze. He doesn’t sing—he’s a little more self-conscious about his voice than he is about his violin skill, though he doesn’t need to be—but the melody is beautiful and I feel utterly smitten by the fact that he’s willing to play just for me. I snap a picture on my phone of him drawing the bow across the string, his lips quirked up in a smile, curls drifting about his face. It’s a moment of peace, him and his music captured forever, and I sigh happily. 

At the end of the day the pipe has been fixed, and we return to find Scipio frowning at a decent amount of water damage. He’s lost quite a few of the things he’s collected through the years, and though he claims that they’re not important, it was clearly a blow. Percy exchanges a look with me and disappears for half an hour, after which he returns with some little knicknacks to replace a few of the things that were unsalvageable. The way Scipio beams when Percy hands over the little gold hourglass filled with black sand and the old-school compass… god. I wish I could _bottle_ how happy Percy makes me. 

Alas, I cannot. What I can do instead is grin and laugh like a lunatic when Percy uncovers a pair of masks in a box in the back of the storeroom and puts one of them on, looking delightfully ridiculous. I put on the other one, pulling on an old coat that someone left in the lost and found, and suddenly we’re playing dress up like we’re kids and I haven’t thought about Rhee in weeks now but suddenly it’s like we’re pulling scenes straight from my formative memories and I want to cry because I miss Rhee so much but I also want to laugh because I have Percy now and I can’t make up my mind about whether or not I’ve lost something irreplaceable or if I’ve found something just as good. 

There’s only one thing that’s vastly different from my childhood with Rhee, one thing that is missing with Percy, and that is, forgive my crudeness, _sex_. A good old horizontal tango or two. It’s been a few years, and by god do I miss it.

The thing is… I’ve never thought about Rhee like that, not even after I grew up a little and started to get myself in trouble. Now, however, I have to face the fact that I actually kind of really want to _do it_ with a guy who reminds me of her in so many ways. I’ll be honest, it’s weird to think like that, to juxtapose the two of them, but I think about where Rhee and I might have ended up had we grown up together and it also feels right, somehow. It’s confusing, and difficult to reconcile, and I don’t have time between rehearsals and studio sessions to really pick apart all these complex emotions, and sometimes I don’t even want to because why fix something that isn’t broken?

Especially when even thinking about it makes me feel _so damn good_.

I’m lost in him. I sink into the couch with him in my lap, his back curved as he leans down to kiss me. My hands are skirting the hem of his button-down, feather light touches that feel like the tingle of static electricity whenever my skin meets his. The pressure of his thighs against my hips has me squirming in the best way, and I moan against him, soaking up his every exhale, completely and utterly gone.

…This is, of course, the moment that the door opens and Adrian walks inside.

“Christ, Monty!” he yelps, diving down the hallway and landing with a thud. I yelp in response, very nearly tossing Percy onto his ass on the floor. In the end I’m glad I don’t, because that would have exposed a… ahem… _teeny bit of a problem_ that is _very_ visible in the front of my pants right now. Percy is frozen, one hand buried in my hair and the other pressed against my back under my shirt, and he wheezes out something that sounds like it was supposed to be words but decidedly isn’t.

It’s right about now that I decide it’s time for a nice, cold shower.

The whole scene will be something to laugh about sometimes down the line, I’m sure. I haven’t had to take a cold shower like that since I was a teenager at the group home, for fuck’s sake. For now, however, I’m as mortified as I’ve ever been—and that’s saying something, since I once wound up drunk and naked in the middle of a parade. It was one thing having a fling or two when Adrian was small enough that I could imprison him in his crib without fear of him escaping and walking in, but now that he’s old enough to Know and Understand… god, I am never going to recover. And, arguably worse, I’m never going to get _laid_. At least not until I manage to charm Percy into taking me home to his place, a mythical distant paradise somewhere in the city that is blissfully teenage ward-free. 

I can wait, I tell myself, shivering under the freezing shower spray. And in the meantime, well… we’re not going to run out of cold water any time soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References:  
> 34) guiding light of stars (ley lines)  
> 35) eyes glowing with starlight (ley lines)  
> 36) rooftop picnic (hopeless),  
> 37) wine, specifically apothic crush (the god of lost souls),  
> 38) statues (written in stone),  
> 39) the haunting in Connecticut (into the tomb)

**Author's Note:**

> Cheers!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [into the tomb](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25278598) by [em_gray](https://archiveofourown.org/users/em_gray/pseuds/em_gray)




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